Lions of Dreams
by Meepinstein
Summary: Struggling? Yeah, I knew what it was like to struggle. To be thrown away in favor of bigger names, to do the lowest of the low just to secure your place in society and prove your worth. Contains OC. Test running this fic, may or may not continue.
1. Prologue

Hey all. Giving this fic a test run. Let me know how you feel about it. I do believe I fixed all the auto-formatting my phone does, but there still might be some blips. And yeah, I reused and revamped this OC. I will probably also be posting this on AO3. Onwards.

**I own nothing you recognize.**

* * *

Struggling? Yeah, I knew what it was like to struggle. To be thrown away by your record company in favor of parties more profitable, to have to resort to working a pole to pay your bills. Why my parents left that beautiful goddamned goddess of a country I'd never know, just like why I couldn't figure out why I didn't just use my pitiful funds to get back. I guess I was just stuck now. Trapped in a forsaken loop of living paycheck to paycheck, supporting myself and the rest of the ragamuffins known as my bandmates, living in a tiny apartment, our meager fanbase dwindling and leaving us to rot with the other burnouts.

We'd taken to following big names, offering opening acts in stabs at publicity, hoping to pick off some cash for our pockets. Today was such a day.

We're all strewn about in our dressing room, tension heavy and thick and nearly physical, like you could reach out and touch it. There's a man from the main act looming in our doorway, the reason for his presence something about making sure we don't engage in foul play, like locking them in their own backstage area as done by some previous opener. Our frontman is making stabs at him for it, arguing that it would only give us a negative image. The stranger is scowling at him in response.

"Lay off, Moray," I bark, turning around in my seat at the vanity table to give him a glare. He about-faces to me, looking nothing short of livid. It doesn't take many strides for him to reach me. I stand, closing the height gap, and grab one of the drumsticks on the table. It's the only pair I currently own, and if I have to break them over this fucker's head, fine by me.

Right on cue after our staring contest is the exchange of verbal abuse. I can't think straight enough to formulate responses in English, reverting to my native tongue. Next is a shoving match, then he brings his hand up in preparation to strike. I might be the token female member, but it didn't excuse me from getting smacked around. His gaze flicks to the mirror behind me, and he then changes his action to jabbing his finger at me.

"You. Get your sad fuckin' face out of my sight," he snarls.

I'm not sad. I'm frustrated. Behaving like and making the rest of us look like asses in front of whoever that man is. That feeling when your throat is tight and dry, your eyes are watering, you're holding your breath lest you make some sort of pathetic sobbing sound like a walrus being bludgeoned, and you're fucking embarrassed because why are you crying anyway? You know that thing? Fuck that thing. I lob the drumstick at his head, shoulder check the man in the doorway as if to say "it's your fault douche" and make my way through the maze backstage and out the rear exit.

My fingers fumble to rip off the cellophane and foil blocking my access to a fresh pack of Marlboro 27s I'd brought with me long ago from across the pond, ungracefully wiping my snot on the back of my hand. I notch one between my teeth, chewing the filter, and struggle to light it before I wear down the flint too much. Suddenly a tanned hand is in my line of sight. Between long fingers is a cheap Bic with a gas station logo. The person ignites it and I cup my hand around the flame.

"Thanks," I reply in a voice thick and hindered with mucus and tar. I sniffle, feeling my stomach churn at the post nasal drip. I nervously glance up, not surprised it's the man that had been embodying a vulture this evening. He'd been half-naked before and now he's thrown on a red silk button down. I'd be willing to bet he owned sheets that matched.

"That was quite a show back there," he comments, and his voice is sticky with some accent. There's a faint growling tone to it.

"Yeah, I'm beginning to think that's the only show we'll be putting on tonight," I shrug, taking a long drag and flicking the butt more times than necessary to give myself something to do.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. I don't know how to interpret it. He looks up at me through femininely long eyelashes, then leans up against the wall next to me on his elbow. He's only got about an inch on me. "Look," he begins. "I need a drummer."

"Do you really think now is the best time to be propositioning me?" I question. I've damn near cried my eyeliner off. But he's a man, and furthermore apparently a man trying to ensure his wellbeing, so I supposed body language and facial expressions went over his head. Nevermind the fact that it was right before a set.

"They weren't treating you right," he presses.

I give him the once over. "Yeah, and you certainly seem like the type to support a family dynamic," I retort. He seems mildly offended. Should I know who he is? Fuck if I could keep track of everyone Moray contacted.

"Hey, I'd never hit a woman, at least not without consent." He oozes cheese from his very pores. Maybe he's trying to lighten the mood, maybe he's coming onto me, maybe it's a little of both. I try to take kindly to it.

"Why?"

"Because safe, sane, consensual-"

"No, why do you need a drummer?" I correct with a soft exhale that was supposed to be a mild laugh.

"Ours is.. indisposed at the moment," he replies vaguely. A klaxon sounds in my head.

"Yeah? And as soon as you get him back, you'll drop me faster than I can blink. I fucking know how this works." I shake my head and stare down at the orange tip in the darkness.

"I suppose you'd rather go back in there?"

"You don't even know my fucking name," I sneer with a hint of the green-eyed monster. "You don't know a damn thing about me. I'm just a convenience to you."

"I'm guessing your favorite car is Mustang Boss in grabber green." I glance down at my muscle shirt. Teal, with a single black stripe with a boss cutout. And my hair? Yeah, grabber fucking green. "And you're some kind of an athlete. You have very defined calves."

"Athlete!" I snort.

"A dancer, then. An exotic one."

"Fuck you."

"I was referring to the fact that you talk like Mads Mikkelson, but alright." He shrugs and I take a pull, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I don't know your name, but why should I?" Ouch.

"Fucking prick," I snap, pushing myself off the wall and pacing up and down the alley. "I have to get back. It's your own damn fault for not being prepared," I point out, trying to heft open the door. I can't. This catches his attention. He tries to pull, then push, and it settles in that we've locked ourselves out.

He grabs my upper arm and begins leading me around the building to the front entrance. I don't take kindly to the action and wrench myself out of his grip. "I'm not a baby. I can fucking walk," I growl.

"You were just crying and snotting like one, love," he reminds. Love? The nerve of this guy. He's every bit the sleaze he looks. He gives a snaggle toothed grin at me and I huff, pushing past him and hastening our trip. We weave through the building to the backstage area. I return to my dressing room.

Of course it would be fucking empty. A string of ethnic curses rolls of my tongue. They'd leave me here. Not a second thought. The tension between us really was that bad. To think we'd once had a name, a relationship among us, and now it was rot, infected. We were dogs with our legs in a trap. "Mad Dog Strategy" - how fitting it seems now.

I return to the hallway. The strange man hadn't left. He's standing there with his arms across his chest, the tiniest self-satisfied smirk on his face. "They're gone?" he asks, stating the obvious in his question.

I sniffle. "Yeah. Fuck 'em." I shrug and avoid eye contact. "I'll be fine."

"Will you?" he corners, and I snap my head up to meet his mismatched gaze. "You're already here, you know."

"And learn this shit in a night?" I demand, feeling the tears of frustration return.

"It's not impossible," he replies, and I get the feeling he's speaking from experience. I press my mouth into a thin line.

"Fine, just...just fucking fine," I relent, throwing my hands about. He beckons to me down the hallway, and I follow him to another dressing room. The little laminated sign reads Gorillaz. He opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

He points to a man with blue hair that seems to be little more than legs. "That's 2D," he introduces. Said man twiddles his fingers at me and then plucks at a banjo. The guy leading me around seems a bit annoyed by it. In fact, he grabs it and launches it across the room. The klaxon goes off again. Don't tell me it's no better here. "That's Noodle." He then points to a young asian woman playing a video game on the floor.

"And you are?" I prompt.

"I'm Murdoc Niccals," he answers with a flourish.

"Adeline Rasmussen," I state even though I wasn't asked.

"Yes! Adeline! Now..." He shrugs off the shirt and drags out a laptop. I expect him to present me with sheet music, but he just pulls up an mp3 and hands me headphones.

"You're fucking kidding," I scoff.

"Wait, what is she doing?" 2D speaks up, leaning over my shoulder.

"Learning!" Murdoc replies enthusiastically. He's a fucking madman at best. I can feel 2D eyeing me with concern.

"Learning...?" he presses.

"Well, you know how Russell's got his...little...situation?" The hell is he on about? "She's our drummer!"

"For now," I add under my breath. 2D doesn't comment if he can hear me. I press the headphones against my ears and push play, closing my eyes and leaning back against the couch. Yeah. Sure. Let's learn.


	2. Chapter 1

So, I got some positive feedback between the two copies, so here's another chapter. If I continue further, there will be videos attached to the AO3 copy, so you might want to pop over there to check some stuff out.I'm sure you could have deduced it yourselves, but pis af is piss off. I'll be adding any major translations at the end of chapters. Let's continue.

**I own nothing you recognize.**

* * *

The set's over, but the hauting feeling of nausea is still picking at my bellyguts. I stand in the hall, looking at the dressing room my band had once occupied. A heavy sigh escapes me and I walk back in to collect my things.

"Well, now what?" Murdoc's voice startles me. I hadn't heard him come in.

"I'm going home," I reply, hefting my bag of miscellany over my shoulder. I pull out my keys, thankful that we hadn't carpooled or rented a bus. He leans up against the door, blocking my exit.

"I'm serious you know," he states.

"Yeah, yeah, but what happens after? What's in it for me in the long run?" I push him out of the way. We're about flush in height and weight.

"Adeline," he calls after me. I pass a fidgeting 2D. He seems to want to say something to me. "Adeline."

"What?" I bark. I don't hesitate to shove open the door and stomp out to the parking lot. A glance back informs me they're both following.

"I'm serious," Murdoc repeats, sacrificing his hand to prevent me from slamming the door shut.

"You've said that already," I sigh, leaning against the steering wheel.

"I'll work something out. It's my band," he gushes with pride. "We'll find a place for you."

"I'll bet that's an empty fucking promise, man." I light up a smoke and take a deep drag. "But, hell, I wouldn't lose shit over it. It's not like I've got anything to my name. Not anymore. Fine. What now?"

Murdoc instructs 2D to go on ahead without him. I notice a tour bus in the back of the lot. He then comes around and waits for me to unlock the door. I push empty cigarette boxes off the seat and onto the floor. "We go home," he finally replies, sliding into the low seat with a lack of grace.

"My stuff," I remind, turning the key in the ignition.

He shrugs. "We'll make side trip, but don't take forever," he groans. I pull up the gps on my phone as he adjusts the passengers seat and examines the crap I have in my console. The drive to my apartment is an hour. When we arrive, I'm surprised to find my roommate there. Victor Wilkins, our secondary guitar.

"Fucking asswipe," I growl as I stalk past toward my room.

"Adeline, I didn't want to leave," he protests, cutting off Murdoc to follow me.

"Yeah, well you fucking did," I point out.

"What was I supposed to do? Moray-"

"Moray this, Moray that! Moray can go fuck himself."

"Shit, Adeline, I-"

"Pis af," I reply shortly as I roll up my clothes and stuff them in my suitcase. Makeup, hair things, a few odds and ends. In the meantime, I notice Murdoc has taken it upon himself to pack up the drum kit I have in the corner. The logo on the bass is almost mocking - a mangy dog, ribs showing, hair patchy, one anthropomorphic hand flipping the bird. Yeah, that's exactly how I feel. Who wants a scraggly dog with a bad attitude?

"I'm borrowing the fucking van," I inform, realizing that's the only way to transport the stuff.

"What? Just what are you doing? Where are you going?" The situation hits Victor like a ton of bricks. He runs his hands through his overlong, mousy brown hair as he tries to process it. If I was just going to throw a pity party for a night or two, I wouldn't be taking the drums.

"Leaving, and none of your fucking business," I snap, partly because I myself didn't know.

"But why?" Victor presses.

"Just, just because. Because you suck. The band sucks. I suck. We don't have anything left, in case you haven't noticed. And the shit I have to do to get by? You try it."

"Addy..."

"Cut the crap," I bark as I slam the suitcase closed. "Pick that shit up." I point to the drum kit. "Put it in the damn van. I'll get my car tomorrow." He doesn't say anymore, just helps carry everything down and into the patchy matte black Astro. I slam the door shut, grab the keys from the glove box, and leave without a glance back at the dejected man.

"Where?" I ask Murdoc as chew my lower lip into a bruise.

"212 Wobble Street, London." I input the address into my phone and we're on the road again. Murdoc returns to examining another vehicle's contents. When we arrive, I can't help but notice that there's a damn giant sleeping on their roof.

"That your drummer?" I ask, nodding upwards.

"How'd you guess?" Murdoc replies dryly as I grab my suitcase. He leads me inside - 2D and Noodle seem to have already arrived. And goddamn, this house is weird. "You can sleep on the floor in Noodle's room until we clear out one of the spares," he informs me.

She seems a teensy bit upset at the intrusion, but leads me up the stairs to her room. The place seems huge in spite of being cluttered with the most random assortment of crap, and beings, I've ever seen. After I drop off my bag, I come back down to see 2D dragging in the kit by himself.

"Make yourself at home," Murdoc invites, dropping his frame onto a sagging couch.

"Do you need help?" I ask, ignoring him and turning to the blue haired man.

"Faceache's fine," the weirdo protests with a wave of his hand.

"But-"

"No, no, no, no, no," 2D babbles. "He's right, make yourself at home, I've got it." The door doesn't have anyway to prop it open, and he's struggling to bring in the cases with the situation.

"I can at least hold the damn door," I state, grabbing one from him and setting it just inside. I push past him to complete the task before he can say anymore about it.

"Th-thank you," he stutters, but without a hint of embarrassment, as if it's just a natural thing. He smiles wide, the black voids of his sockets slipping out of view as he tops off the display with closed eyes. I shrug a no problem and decide that dragging them upstairs could wait.

I continue to glance around the great hovel, lip curling in mild disgust and disturbia. Why the fuck is there a bowl of ears and men with x's for faces just wandering about? Trash crunches underfoot. I don't really want to join them on the couch that looks like it may give up.

"Faceache, show her around," Murdoc instructs, perhaps a little annoyed that I'm giving the house the same once over and picking he'd done the vehicles. 2D leaves the couch again and beckons me to follow him.

"This is, uh," he begins, opening a door revealing more oddities. He simply trails off and shuts the door again.

"A bit of a stretch to call it a habitable environment?" I murmur to myself as he leads me up the stairs.

He carries on, not hearing me. "That's the bathroom. That's Noodle's room, you've already been there. That's Murdoc's room, don't go in there. This is my room. You can come in here if you want, I guess." He gestures me in, but it's no cleaner than the rest of the place.

"No thanks," I decline with a shake of my head. He shrugs and we begin to meander back down the stairs.

"So...what do you like to do?" 2D asks, making a stab at conversation. I raise my shoulders and make an "iunno" noise. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I don't exactly have free time," I counter, tucking my hands in my pockets. As he reaches the landing, he turns around to face me with that open mouth, closed eyes grin. Even though I haven't know him long, suddenly being able to look him in the face without looking up is weird.

"I guess we'll just have to figure it out then!" he replies cheerily, tapping his fingertips together in barely contained excitement.

"Y-yeah," I stutter. Someone taking interest in me after all these years is a hell of a foreign feeling. He spins on his heel and we go back to the living area. Then he begins to rifle through the collection of media boxes under the television.

"Oi, what are you doing?" Murdoc demands, kicking 2D's behind with the toe of his boot.

"Making Adeline feel at home," he replies matter-of-factly. "Let's start with a movie. What do you like?"

"I told you, I don't know." I sigh loudly.

Noodle enthusiastically grabs my wrist, makes me kneel down next to 2D, then covers my eyes with her hands. "Pick one!" she chimes. I run my fingers over them a few times, then pull one out. When I'm allowed to see again, I note Murdoc's object of attention in the reflection of the screen. Of course.

The other two clap their hands together at the choice, congratulating me on my blind pick. As the atmosphere picks up, the grumpy bassist stalks up to his room, slamming the door in his wake. I glance back, spine tingling and stomach churning with second thoughts.

But hey, these two were giving me a warm welcome. Why should I be worried? I take Murdoc's abandoned seat on the end, remove my decaying hightops, then pull my feet up onto the cushion as 2D puts in the DVD. He then sinks down between me and Noodle, all sprawling limbs and platonic skinship. It unnerves me at first, but slowly my stomach warms and my heart flutters with joy. Maybe Murdoc was an ass, but he certainly wasn't.


	3. Chapter 2

Voila. Take it. Read it.

**I own nothing you recognize.**

* * *

I wake up the next morning on my little futon pad in Noodle's room. The clock says seven-thirty. I don't remotely remember what time we'd gone to bed last night. I heft myself up into a sitting position and exchange a tired glance with the young woman. She's not really awake either. Together we stumble down the stairs to the kitchen, dropping into the chairs and slumping over the table.

I ask the million dollar question. "Do you have a coffee maker?"

She glances over at the counter and clears away clutter until an ancient drip machine is in view. It's filthy, but it's there. "Apparently." I ransack the cabinets until I can find a dishrag and soap and set about cleaning the thing while Noodle returns to the table. As I set up a vinegar rinse for the insides, an exchange of sleepy but cheerful good mornings sound behind me. I guess 2D's up. I kneel on the counter in order to search the very back.

"What about the coffee part?" I persist, looking over my shoulder to the table. I'm not surprised to find Murdoc staring at my behind as if the meaning of life was written on it. He tries to pretend like he wasn't.

"Faceache," he barks with a snap of his long fingers. "Go buy her some coffee."

I climb off the counter and check the fridge for milk. A smell like death assaults my olfactories. "Is this stuff actually edible?" I ask, picking up a baggie of what might have once been cold cuts but was now just a mass of green fur. I give Noodle a concerned glance.

"Faceache, go to the store," Murdoc continues to order. Still drowsy 2D starts to rise from his chair.

"I'll go with him," I offer. "I still have to pick up my car." I head back up the stairs after informing the group I'm going to take a short shower. As I pick out my clothes I scowl. It's all stylish, trendy "rock star" garments. I grab a white tank top, the seams of which have been ripped, the sides cut and tied together in a series of peekaboos, and a pair of lightwashed jeans I really ought to get rid of. There's a strategic hole in them to show off the fact that I had stupidly and permanently gotten my band's logo tattooed on my thigh. I lay a black canvas cropped jacket, embellished with gold pyramid studs, and my decimated red high tops out for when I get back. Everything looks gaudy.

When I'm through and dressed, I head down the stairs and find 2D and Noodle waiting for me. Murdoc has slinked off somewhere. I'm not remotely interested in his ordeals. I apologize for the delay and lead them out to the Astro. Noodle takes the passenger's seat and 2D opts to bounce around in the back. The drive seems shorter since I know the way. However, when I come within a city block of the complex, flashing lights become visible in the side view. The siren woops a few times and I pull over.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" the cop asks as I lean out the window.

"No, sir," I answer, exasperated.

"This vehicle has been reported stolen, ma'am."

"Fucking hell," I mutter. "Let me guess, by a Moray Roy? You run the thing? Title's not in his name." I seem to have caught him in a moment of negligence. "Can I go?"

"No, ma'am. I need your licence." I grit my teeth and reach for my wallet. "How long have you been in London?"

"Fuck, I don't know, why?" I lean against the window frame and look down at him as he hasn't asked me to step out. I watch him return to his vehicle to try to run it.

"What's the problem?" 2D pipes up from the back seat.

"I only have a Danish licence," I inform, chewing my thumbnail. He spends a long time in his car, probably actually checking the plates while he's at it and contacting the real owner. When he comes back, he's writing me a warning for having technically expired credentials. I shove the thing into the mostly decorative pocket of my jacket and waste no time in leaving once he dismisses me.

This was already getting out of hand. Did Moray know already? Did Vic tell him I showed up last night with Murdoc, who he would no doubt remember from the set? Who the hell had the loose lips?

I leave 2D and Noodle to arrange themselves in my coupe and go up to confront Victor. Surprisingly, Moray hasn't gone and changed the lock while he was at it. "Victor," I call in sing-song voice. "You been fucking around? What did you tell the sheep-fucker?"

"Addy? What are you talking about?" he asks, rounding the corner, halfway through getting dressed.

"Why is Brendan's van supposedly stolen?"

"But it's the community van?" he asks more than states, obviously confused. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah, I got pulled over, and now I need a British license, because someone reported it to the five-oh."

"Wasn't me." He raises his hands in a whoa there gesture as he denies his involvement.

"Was Moray by here after I left?"

"Yeah, he was going to apologize, or so he said, but you were gone. He wanted to know where you were going, said I didn't know, but that you were with that dude. Taking all your stuff..." He trails off, realizing his error.

I'm still stuck on the idea that Moray wanted to apologize. Hating me, deciding to say sorry, and then trying to get me arrested. Couldn't the guy pick a damn side? I scoff and grind the toe of my shoe into the dirty carpet.

"Keep your mouth shut. Don't say any more to him. Don't tell him I was here. Let him figure it out. Buy me time. But if he starts going off about me, tell me. I'm not in the mood to end up in jail or at the bottom of a lake."

"Yeah, I...I'm really sorry, Adeline. I knew he was a crazy fucker, but I didn't think he'd try to get you arrested."

I exhale sharply again and shake my head in exasperation. "Whatever. I'm going now. Bye." I shut the door on him before he can say anything else. By the time I return to the car I'm almost all the way through an anger smoke. 2D and Noodle have switched seats - I suppose his long legs proved problematic with the back of the coupe.

"Where's the store?" I ask with an unintentional snarl, still fuming. He jumps a little at my tone of voice and twiddles his fingers.

"Th-that way," 2D stutters out, pointing. I'd feel bad if my blood wasn't tingling with adrenaline and the urge to deck Moray, break his nose, kick him in the balls, run him over - whichever opportunity presented itself first.

I follow his pointed directions until we arrive. As soon as I set foot in the store I beeline for the aisle containing coffee and tea, quickly picking out the biggest can and hugging it to my chest. Noodle regroups with me, pushing a shopping cart and shrugging off the fact that 2D had wandered off somewhere. She insists that we'll find him later.

We exchange small talk as we stroll down the aisles. She fills me in on how she came to join the ragtag bunch and I'm pleasantly surprised to finally know a female around my age that I could actually talk to. When she asks to confirm, I can't help but inform her that I'm six and half using the most obnoxious childish voice I could manage.

Noodle giggles a bit. "So you were born on a leap year?" she inquires. She's probably the only one smart enough to come to the conclusion.

"Yes, indeedy," I affirm with a nod. I change the subject as it dawns on me. "Hey, what do you do about Russel? Like, does he eat or what? He eats, right?" My mind wanders into the territory of the byproduct of eating, but I quickly shake my head to rid myself of the thought.

"I..." Her feet halt as much as her words. "I honestly don't know. I've never thought about it." She casually reaches out and grabs the back of 2D's shirt as we happen across him.

"Is he...nice?" I venture, figuring maybe I ought to get to know the man I'm replacing. Perhaps he feels ignored having to be up on the roof.

"Oh yeah! He's very nice." She then gives me a brief summary of the events involving a place called Plastic Beach, which seems to bring up a sour mood with 2D. He informs me that it was not his choice to go, that he'd been drugged and shoved in a suitcase. When I'm no longer distracted by trying to figure out how he could fit in one, I realize it kind of sounds like something Moray would do. His only interest is the band. My stomach churns and burns.

"You ok?" Noodle asks, leaning forward to try to look me in the eye. "You're pale."

"Hmm? 'S nothing." I wave her off and tuck my hands in my pockets as we proceed to the checkout. Once everything is paid for and loaded into the trunk we return to the apartment.

As I'm bringing in the bags I notice I don't trip over my drum kit. Where the hell is it? "Do you know where it might have gone?" I ask, panicked, jabbing my finger at the empty space.

"It?" Unfortunately I'd turned to 2D.

"My drums."

"Oh. Oh!" He looks down at the floor where it once was. "I dunno. Maybe Murdoc has it?"

"Why...?" I trail off and abandon helping them, heading up to where the rooms are. I pound on his door with my fist. "Hey! The fuck are my drums?" I demand. When there's no answer, I bang harder. "Hey!"

"What are you shouting for? Nobody's home." A voice is suddenly hot in my ear. I whip around to find myself face to face with the bastard himself.

"Hard to be intimidating when you're short, huh?" I bite.

"Hmm? You seemed pretty scared, love," he nearly purrs.

"Don't call me that. Where are my drums?"

"I took the liberty of setting them up. This way." He curls one freakishly long finger in a come here gesture. I follow him reluctantly.

The place is bigger than it looks. He leads me into what seems to be a practice room, haphazardly soundproofed for the neighbors. My kit is in the corner, surprisingly not in ruins. When I walk around, there's a new pair of drumsticks on the stool. "These aren't mine," I point out.

"No, you left half of them back in the dressing room, remember? They're from Russel. A gift or whatever." He shrugs.

A gift from someone I haven't spoken to yet? I'm touched. Hell, I even get a little teary eyed. I'm so not used to such kindness.

I shove Murdoc out of the way and head outside. After waving my arms and shouting, I catch Russel's attention. He climbs down from the roof and picks me up so that we might have a chance of conducting a normal conversation. Once we're, in a sense, face to face, I have no idea how to make a sincere gesture of gratitude.

"Hey, thanks," I begin, realizing how shitty it must sound. I rub my forearm. "For the sticks. I don't know how you knew I needed them, but I'm grateful. It's really nice." Since he's given me the present, I don't think he's too put off by the idea of having a temporary replacement.

Russel laughs, and the sound makes me jump. "It's no problem," he replies, picking up on the fact that I don't know what I'm doing. "But" - he lowers his voice to as much of a whisper as he can manage - "just watch yourself around the old man, ok? He means well, but he's still an ass."

"I noticed," I scoff, raising my brows. Uncomfortable with talking about the sleaze, I reiterate my thanks a few more times than necessary.

"You need anything, you can come to me," he offers. It's intimidating talking to a giant, but the exchange makes my heart swell.

"Yeah. Thanks. I will," I spit out in an awkward staccato. He grins widely and I do the same. When I head back in, I find Murdoc standing there with his arms across his chest.

"What?" I question, mimicking his stance.

"Well, we know you can play the drums, but can you sing? Can you rap? Can you do anything else?" He pushes.

I sigh and drop myself into a chair at the kitchen table. Not this conversation.


End file.
